7.

Oh, you again!

Mary Magdalene of 42nd St.--tall, able-bodied,
red stilettos
click-click-clicking.

We wait in line together to see if our
names are in the great book, sharing a cup
of coffee ground from
the bones in Golgotha. Tastes good.

Peter is a smug bastard, and I already
know where we're going. I'm going to savor
the hell out of this coffee at least.

But see, I'll just go back to my grease stain.
My asshole-of-the-universe perch against the cold
stone subterranean wall:

A semi-circle of loose change.
A pile of corroding magazines.
A deceitfully bright blue tarp.

Might as well be a shrine to
old Satan himself.

Might as well be 'cause
I see his demons and minions
every night, coming
out to play on the subway
tracks and in the hearts of
children.

And I am one of those children.